


war protocol

by IrisParry



Category: Dredd (2012), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Mega City One, Pre-Canon, dreddverse, kylux adjacent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 10:55:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16345424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrisParry/pseuds/IrisParry
Summary: Matt lives in back of the repair shop in Peach Trees. The boy lives a few floors higher up, and a world away.





	war protocol

**Author's Note:**

> For the avoidance of any doubt, the use of "boy" does not at all indicate Techie is a child in this fic. They are adults, remaining their canon ages. Inasmuch as Matt has one. He's as old as Kylo Ren, which I'm sure pleases him greatly.

Four in the afternoon and the sign in the door of the store’s flipped to  _ closed _ . Careful handwriting, good handwriting, faded ink, streaked glass. Through the narrow aisle, looming stacks with dull metal edges, firework bursts of coloured wire, flickering screens, hot rusty smell, to the old-fashioned till,  _ 59,99 _ rung up on sour-apple-green LED, half a Size-Up Synthberry Mega-Shake (advanced formula, raises the bar for muscle-mass performance) congealing next to a pile of components, dents in their casings but still good, waiting to get bagged up. 

Half the counter top’s up on its hinges. The dumb beaded curtain’s clacking when the fan turns to it, settling when it turns away in disgust. The back room is like the front room would be if customers would stop messing with it, opening boxes, dropping candy wrappers, picking stuff up and putting it back down two shelves away as if it hadn’t been where it was for a good  _ reason _ \- 

The back room’s okay. Beyond that, though, a room with a lock on the door, and inside the boy’s stretching his arms above his head, fingers interlocked and pushing up far as they’ll go, body twisting in the neon light from outside like it’s a hot water shower, getting covered in it. 

A room with a workbench under the window, though Mr Snoke hardly haunts the shop anymore so there’s nobody to give a rat’s ass about working on personal projects out front with the good lamp and the pneumatic vice. There’s a rail for hanging clothes, and pushed up against the wall there’s the bed, long enough for almost all of the boy though now he’s perched right on the end, bare feet flat on the rug. He’s finishing that stretch, rolling his shoulders. Matt’s lifting a hand offof the mattress so he can bump his fingers down the boy’s spine but he can’t really reach, even though he’s stretching too. 

When can you get away again? Matt asks him.

He laughs and turns back for a second. His cheeks are a colour the lights didn’t make them. Picks his shirt up off the floor, fumbles it on til he’s standing with his ass and his junk peeking out from under the hem, looking kinda extra naked somehow. I’m not sure, he says, squinting around for pants, shorts, shoes? But soon? I’m super busy with this new server, but the stuff - he means the stuff on the counter, out through the locked door and the back room and the stupid curtain, sitting waiting for them, way out there - the stuff should make a lot of difference. So. He hops into pants. Maybe it won’t be too long?

He sits down again, closer to Matt on the long edge of the bed, drops his shoes and fishes socks out of them. He’s not a boy, not really, no more than Matt is, but that’s who he was when he started coming round the store.  _ Matt, the boy is out there again. Matt, go and see to the boy, I need to rest my hip. The boy has a good eye, maybe the boy could be useful around here.  _ The boy’s six feet tall, old man, Matt was thinking. I wonder if the boy’ll come by again tomorrow, Matt was thinking. 

Matt’s sitting up in the bed, legs crossed and the sheet bunched up around his waist. He’s got fistfuls of it pulled in close. Okay, he says. You know. Whenever.

 

*

 

He’s building something big up there, one hundred and twenty-three floors above Matt and the shop and the room with the lock. Schematic in Matt’s head’s got empty shapes might mean sending out to Sternhammer, even Harlequin. Last time Matt got on the inter-block maglev train he threw up in a trash can at the other end, one bad splatter away from a month in an iso-cube on a vandalism charge. Peach Trees, you don’t even go that fast in the elevators.

The boy doesn’t have to tell. Matt’s not stupid. Lot of people think that when you’re ripped. Still every time the boy’s leaving Matt wants to  _ say _ something stupid. Fact is the Ma-Ma clan are the only ones who could be putting something like this together now; fact is, anybody who needs telling to  _ be careful _ of them is already dead. 

So here they are again, neither of them saying things that don’t need saying. The boy lying on his side, in the bed, looking at Matt like pushups are a really big deal. The Judged overran the gym on 23 a few years back: masks about all that was cool about them, hogged the squat rack standing around  _ talking _ , never wiped down the benches, laid Clarence Altman’s head in the leg press and loaded up 200lb while he screamed and pissed himself. Word is they went to the mattresses, now 40 floors just wait for the other shoe to drop. For Ma-Ma to grind her heel. 

Bits and pieces left out on the workbench and they catch his eye, the boy’s, get him on his feet. Blue shorts washed dull, sagged tired around his waist and hips. Clinging the best they can. Matt on the pull-up bar across the door now, hanging. 

What’s this?

It’s nothing.

Doesn’t touch. Hands hover. Looks like some kind of modulation circuitry? If you’re gonna -

It’s nothing.

He turns, questions on his lips. Licks them off with a dart of his tongue, looks up at Matt, looks all the way down him and back again. 

Asks instead, You could. You could probably lift me, right? Without a lot of trouble. I mean.

Uh. Matt’s feet are back on the ground. He swallows. I guess. Yeah.

It’s not a guess. Matt knows how much he can lift. Has a chart, in his good handwriting. Never lifted anything that hung on, though, thighs and bent knees and heels, fingers and thumbs, mouth and teeth. Hung on, back against the wall, blue shorts on the floor. Laughed, nervous at first, then pleased, when he felt for sure Matt could hold him, keep him there safe. Pretended not to notice when that was a lot for Matt, just clung tighter, Matt’s face dropped into the hot crook of his neck.  

After, they’re sweating and laughing and their legs shake them back to the bed. It’s time to stretch, really. Reduce lactic acid build-up. Important metabolic window for muscle repair, for optimum mass increase. Size-Up Mega-Shakes are out there in the shop fridge; the boy is in the bed with his face and his chest all pink. Matt lays down. 

The boy’s too tired to do it again but will not let himself sleep. Keeps saying he has to go when he doesn’t. Matt watches his pale orangey lashes flutter and twitch for whatever amount of time, until he says it again and gets up. Blue shorts, black pants, yellow shirt, ten marks underneath that only Matt knows about, Matt’s fingerprints on the backs of his thighs. 

I had a good time, he says. Matt’s half in half out of his overalls and has to sit down heavy on the bed before he makes a show of himself. I mean, I always do, he says, hurried as if Matt might be looking to find something faulty in it, something mean. I always do, I just.

He goes pink again, wrings the bottom of his shirt in both hands. Looks up at Matt where he’s speechless on the bed, one bare leg and a whole bare ass, and says, I thought you might wanna know.

He lingers by the door frame for a minute, hanging onto it and shuffling his feet and tracing his fingers up and down and over a lumpy drip in the paint. 

Okay, Matt says. I mean. Thanks.

The boy nods and goes.

  
  


*

  
  


Ow.

Sorry.

Sorry. Just. Maybe? Not so much with the thumbs?

Okay. Sorry.

The boy hunches a lot, gets sore in the shoulders. Not clear he’s less sore after Matt does this. Might just be distracting. Good enough. Matt tucks his thumbs up out of the way, presses and presses: finger-tips, hand-heels. Nose in the boy’s hair. It’s heavy and rusty-dark today, water must be out up there again. The outside of his legs falls against the inside of Matt’s.   

Uh, so, Matt says, clumsy loud, and already it’s stupid. The boy tenses up. Puts his hands on Matt’s knees. 

Too late. Just say it. So, you’ve been working pretty hard?  _ Stupid.  _ Keep touching him. Feel him breathing, thinking. Slick of his skin and the knots and tremors in his muscle. 

Patrol drone goes by, sweep of white light, bleach-out, makes bars and stores and mega-block names fade outside. Over the boy’s shoulder the expressway seems far away; the lights on it are far away by the time you can register them. Already dead, like stars. Keep touching him.

I’m not stupid. The boy sighs it out, shoulders sagging. 

I know. 

I know they’re fucking psychopaths. I know that. He notices he’s gripping Matt’s kneecaps, flexes and relaxes, flat-hand-pat, little apology. Staring out of the window, eyes far-off and bright like the expressway, he rolls his shoulders back against Matt’s hands. It’s not like. Like I think I made these great new friends? Who just wanna make Peach Trees a better place? Spits out  _ Peach, place, _ like they taste bad.

I know. 

I’m useful. No clue how that word tastes to him, his tongue catching on every letter. I’m useful. So I’m safe. 

Okay. I didn’t mean to -

They got coffee. He cuts in, but it’s not rude. Conversational. That’s all this is. Conversation. Real coffee. From Brasilia.

Yeah? Matt grips to massage the neck extensors. Like picking up a kitten. The boy sighs, hums.  _ Purrs. _

It actually tastes better than synth? I didn’t think it would. He sighs again. I was up with the new code til Wednesday, just kept sipping and nuking up more every couple hours.

Does it work the same?

Better, maybe? You still don’t sleep, but you sort of forget you want to? 

Huh.

Oh, uh. I brought you some. It’s in my bag. Sorry. I forgot til now.

Thank you. 

The boy gets heavier against Matt’s chest, little by little til Matt can’t get to his back anymore. Nothing to be done but to switch to the front. Collar-bone, ribs, belly. Hard and soft. Matt makes him stutter a laugh and a gasp, touching his nipples in each hand, harder then softer. Surely he can feel Matt’s heart thump into him pressed up behind. The sheet’s tented over their knees til the boy pushes it down away, hot body-smell from beneath it. His head tips back onto Matt’s shoulder and he grits his teeth when Matt takes hold of him. 

Fuck. Yeah. He twitches up into Matt’s hand, rubs back against his dick. Matt holds another arm round him tighter, pushes their faces close to shove his glasses back up his nose, make sure he can see down between their legs. The boy might be kissing the side of his face or it might be the nothing words he mutters, his breath coming hard. His toes curl in the bedsheet and Matt watches and he grunts and gasps and gasps and comes, clammy body writhing in Matt’s arms. Fuck. He’s so good, so dirty and out of it, so hot and real.  

Let me. Fuck. Let me. He slithers around til he can get to Matt’s dick, might’ve meant it for his mouth but his hand’s enough, gets Matt all the way off and reaching for him, pulling him in to slur half-breath kisses, close, trembling, their wet hands sliding round each other, his long hair round Matt’s face. Nothing else to see or hear or taste or feel. Nothing but the boy. 

  
  


*

 

Sunrise creeps reluctant round Sternhammer block, drags itself through the smoke to the window. Struggles on through the film of dirt, spills in tired and pale. Lingers a glittering minute on the workbench, the personal project, coils of wire, scattered screws shiny like shards of glass, tweezers and pliers; the lead box, sitting there smug and secret from the sun. Crosses the floor and makes a poem of it, a painting, a still life. Clothes in little heaps together, two pairs of thin-sole shoes. Takeout boxes, Mexican, couple days old, nothing left but the smears. The boy's bag, lumpy canvas in that grey-green nothing colour. Pretty, floating dust motes above it all. Then, two pairs of feet, hung over the end of the bed, their order all jumbled up.

There’s not been a lot of sleep and two bodies are heavy and buzzy-tired on the mattress, sunk into it. The boy's heart stutters on, in his chest, close to the surface, to where Matt's hand lays. After it crests the covers the sun takes its time with the boy, crawls from his belly with reverence, searching, finding the barest traces of copper all over, navel and chest and  forearms. The backs of his fingers, even, hairs tiny and shiny. He has an arm thrown over the top of his head and the sun stretches on, follows the perfect curve and twist of the boy’s body, how the hair under his arm is beautiful too, bright and wild-angled or softened damply against his skin. 

Matt’s watching, watching how he keeps on breathing, steady like his heart, how he gets all lit up with the morning, and Matt's crazy, finally. Something's broken inside of him, frayed to a snap. Last night the Clan came for The Judged and the food court was burning and Mrs Menzies and her kid and Az from the pizza place who still owed two instalments at the store all got hit and it was right before the wall came in and nobody could get to them and there was concrete dust in the boy’s hair from the ricochet and at first the smoke smelled like Corrina had let the grill get bad again and shots and screaming went on and on and on.

Both sets of shutters are down in front of the shop and the door is locked and five boxes from the back room piled up behind it so they’d have time before someone got in but for what. For what. The boy helped him with them and then they sat in the bed all night holding on to each other. 

Matt's been up longer than the sun and Matt's gone so bugfuck crazy that looking at the boy asleep is choking him up worse than running out of the food court with him. The bodies are still outside and all Matt can do is look at him. Can’t get close enough. The fire countermeasures kicked in, Control woke the fuck up at their stations, ventilation spun the smoke out, but the bodies are outside waiting for the recyc cart. Haven't heard it beep, wet swish of the cleaner brushes turning underneath. Haven't heard it beep.

Hey. The boy shifts and his face is blurry, just when Matt needs to see it. They pull closer and whichever of them's shaking passes it on to the other, and Matt’s trying to breathe right against the boy's fluttering chest. Fingers digging in, legs tangled. He’s so gold and red and beautiful in the sunrise, a new morning, reboot, restart, go all over again. Hey, he says again. 

Deep breath, take the smell of him in. Keep it. Matt looks up. Swallows. Reboots.

Morning. Words feel funny in his mouth. 

The boy smiles at him like he’s done well. You hungry?

Kinda. Yeah? Should be.

There's stuff in my bag. From the megamart last night. He doesn't say  _ before _ . Doesn't say, so we don’t have to go out there yet. Matt wishes he would. Wants to feel the sound vibrate in his chest. Press his face there and put a hand soft at his throat and have him say anything. The boy sighs, shallow but Matt is close. He bends his head down over the top of Matt’s, face in his hair for a second like it might be a kiss. Then he tips them til Matt’s on his back, clambers over, feet to the floor, scrambles himself out of the sheets as he goes. 

Hey. Matt sits up, takes the boy’s wrist. Still wants - something, something he can feel in his throat. Watches him fold back down to the edge of the bed, lips parting like he’s going to talk, but he doesn’t, just sits, eyes wide and warning and Matt doesn’t know what that means so in the end he’s just looking and looking, til all he’s thinking is, You have beautiful eyes. 

Aw, c’mon. The boy closes them a long moment.

I. I thought you might want to know.

The boy looks at him and his lips move soundlessly again, then he bears Matt down onto his back again and kisses him like he’s furious, hold his face in two hands, spreads hs skinny thighs over him, til Matt forgets about that something he couldn’t make the words for or he thinks this might’ve been it. Patrol drone goes by outside. Far off, the beep of the recyc cart. The Clan took the boy’s floor a long time ago.


End file.
